The carriage rolled through the wrought iron gates of her family’s estate as dawn peeled over the horizon, pale and fragile. The stone manor rose into view—sprawling, grand, its ivy-laced walls catching the thin light of morning, the vines like tendrils reaching toward the sky. The estate was an imposing testament to wealth, flanked by perfectly manicured gardens and a winding drive lined with gas-lit lanterns, their flickering light casting fleeting, golden halos in the early mist that hung heavy over the grounds. The cool air carried the faintest scent of damp earth and blooming flowers, a stark contrast to the stale, heavy smell of smoke that had clung to their clothes from the journey.

  From the window, Seraphine could already see them—her family. Figures in pressed uniforms clustered at the steps of the manor, their movements precise and practiced, each one of them standing at attention as though the arrival of their lady was a performance. The crest of her family was embroidered in gold on their breast pockets, a symbol of old power, of long-standing legacy. A few figures in finer clothes, guests perhaps, stood at the top of the wide stone stairs, their silken drapery billowing gently in the early breeze.

  Her throat tightened. She could feel the weight of the estate’s imposing presence pressing down on her chest, constricting. Her hands instinctively knotted in the folds of her skirts, the delicate fabric feeling like a foreign touch against her skin. She didn’t turn to look at Shadow, didn’t dare. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t there, easier to focus on the rising sense of unease that gnawed at her gut.

  The vehicle came to a slow, rattling stop, and the moment the door opened, she was engulfed. The breath was crushed from her lungs as arms wrapped around her—her mother’s voice a choked murmur of relief, her father’s hand firm and steady at her shoulder. Her younger brother clung to her waist, and she could hear the faint sniff of her cousin behind them. Servants poured around her, gathering her bags with swift, practiced movements, calling for the steward. The noise of their chatter, of the rustle of silks and the click of shoes on stone, filled the air, drowning out everything else.

  For a moment, her feet didn’t even touch the ground. She was swept into the tide—folded into their arms, ushered into the familiar warmth of home. It was as though the world outside had ceased to exist, and she was finally back where she belonged.

  But when she finally dared to glance over her shoulder, he was already gone.

  He didn’t linger. Didn’t watch. As soon as her feet hit the stone steps, he dismounted from the vehicle with a practiced, fluid motion and slipped into the shadow of the stable yard. There was no farewell, no lingering glances. Just the quiet retreat of someone who knew their place had been relinquished.

  A man in a fitted vest, the estate’s steward by his polished shoes and precise stride, approached Shadow with a tight, formal nod. The man’s eyes scanned Shadow’s worn clothes, the faint tear in his cloak, and the dried blood that still clung faintly to the stitching at his side—remnants of a journey neither had spoken about.

  “You’ve done well, sir,” the steward said curtly. “The family is… most grateful for the lady’s safe return.”

  No names. No warmth. Just business.

  The steward pressed a heavy envelope into his hand, thick with coin and sealed with the family’s crest. “Your payment.”

  Shadow took it without a word. No thanks. No acknowledgment. Just the quiet acceptance of a transaction.

  They offered him a room for the night—an old servant’s quarters near the stables, small and sparse, but better than the road. He didn’t refuse. He didn’t accept with thanks, either. Just nodded. Wordless. Detached.

  By nightfall, he stood near the stable’s open door, leaning against the weathered wood frame. The cool air hung thick with the scent of hay and old wood, the faint, still night wrapping him in its emptiness. He stared out across the gardens, the faint glow of the manor’s many windows scattering light across the grounds, painting the grass in pools of soft, golden hue. He could see the soft glimmer of the ballroom windows from here—the golden light spilling onto the marble terrace. He could hear the faint echo of music as it drifted across the stone courtyard, the sound of her life—the one she was meant for—resuming without him.

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  Her family’s laughter. Her voice, light and bright.

  It was everything she had ever wanted. Everything he had never been able to give her. The walls of the estate seemed to close in around him, cold and indifferent.

  The envelope sat on the table behind him, untouched. Unopened. It might as well have been lead—too heavy, too final to consider. The room was filled with the sharp scent of soap and cold water, the faint echo of scrubbing. His clothes were still damp from where he had washed away the dirt and blood, scrubbing himself clean as if he could rinse away the last few days—the last few weeks. The last few years.

  But no matter how much he washed, the scent of her lingered. On his skin. On the worn leather strap of his scabbard. Clinging faintly to his cloak, the same cloak she had once pulled around herself when the wind turned cold. He could still feel the ghost of her fingers on his wrist. Still feel the warmth of her touch in his palm. Still feel the slight, trembling hitch in her breath when she used to lean too close.

  He hated himself for wanting to feel it again.

  When he finally walked back into the estate’s courtyard, the manor lights were dimming. Most of the guests had gone, leaving only faint traces of footsteps on the cobblestones and the occasional flicker of candlelight behind the balcony curtains. The night was quiet. And still. And final.

  He saw her by accident.

  She was crossing the main hall with a maid at her side, holding the hem of her gown slightly above the polished marble floor, her steps deliberate and graceful. Her hair was pinned back loosely, a few faint strands falling near her temple. She was wearing silk gloves and a pale gold sash—the colors of her family’s house. Elegant. Refined. Distant.

  She was speaking softly to the maid, something about arrangements for the morning. About her brother. About her uncle’s arrival. Her voice, when it rose, was light with the ease of her station—carefree, effortless, nothing like the soft whispers they had shared in the quiet of the forest, or the fragile moments of understanding in their silence.

  Then her gaze drifted slightly—toward the doors.

  Her eyes caught on his. Just for a second. She didn’t look away. Not immediately. Not entirely.

  But neither did she meet his eyes fully.

  Her gaze slid past him. Through him. Like he was a shadow on the wall. Like he was already gone.

  She approached slowly. Graceful. Poised. Too careful. Too composed.

  When she spoke, her voice was polite. Precise. Detached.

  “Safe travels, Shadow.” Smooth. Formal. Like she was speaking to a stranger. “Thank you for everything.”

  Everything. As if it were just a service rendered. Just a job. Just another nameless task completed. The words were a knife to his chest. They cut deeper than any wound he had ever suffered.

  He did nothing. Said nothing. For one fractured, agonizing second, his fingers twitched faintly at his side. As if he might reach for her. As if he might defy the decorum that stood between them.

  He didn’t. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

  Didn’t break.

  Instead, he did the only thing he knew how to do—the only thing that had ever kept him from falling apart. He smirked. Cold. Distant. A half-mocking, careless twist of his mouth. Like she was nothing. Like he was already gone.

  He nodded once. Curt. Detached. And he turned away. Without a word. Without looking back.

  Without giving her the chance to see the faint, splintering crack that ran straight through him.

  As he walked through the garden, past the iron gates, he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Didn’t breathe.

  He wouldn’t think of her again. Wouldn’t remember the weight of her hands against his chest. Wouldn’t remember the sound of her voice—low, unguarded—when she said his name. Wouldn’t remember how, just once, she had looked at him like she could have loved him.

  He was very, very good at lying.

  Except to himself.